These Hands

A fee verse poem, inspired by a mother's love and looking back at my own childhood.

These Hands  

These hands that held you close

Upon  my   breast.

The  first  moments  that you breathed.

Your  tiny hands

Wriggled and giggled with life.

 

Those hands enveloped  by mine

That first day at school.

I let go of you at the gates

And with a wave ‘goodbye’

You disappeared inside,

Our hearts still joined in apprehension.

 

These hands that showed you

How tie your laces,

How  to brush your teeth,

How to wash your hair.

 

These hands that signed   the letters,

You brought home from school.

So I could give permission

For the trips that had been planned.

And wrote countless notes

To explain your absence once again

When you were too ill

To  rise that day.

 

These hands caressed your head

As you lay with fever, hot and restless.

These hands nursed you through

The long watches of the night,

And cooled your brow and stroked your hair

To bring such small small comfort.

 

These hands folded tightly in prayer,

I gazed into your fearful eyes,

No longer able to touch you for the pain.

Instead I fluffed your pillows

To make them softer

Or turned them to make them cool.

 

These hands sewed patches

On the jeans

You insisted on wearing again and again.

 

These hands cooked your favourite cakes,

The ones topped with chocolate sprinkles

And cherry.

 

These hands would throw and catch and play,

And lift you from the ground

When you fell and cut your knee,

And wiped away the blood

Amidst the tears and pleas,

And put that big teddy bear plaster

Across the wound

That made you smile again.

 

These hands that scrubbed

And washed and dried

Those muddy clothes

Thrown carelessly on the floor

After every match you played.

 

These hands that drove you

To your very first interview

At university

Then many   miles after,

From place to place.

 

These hands are old now,

Bony, twisted, gnarled.

Barely able to hold yours.

 

Those hands clasped mine,

Hugged and held me close,

Gave me hope. Made me smile.

Those hands made my pillow,

Stroked my hair.

 

These hands lay still beside me,

Never again to hold or touch or feel

In this present world

But then to hold my Maker’s,

Restored, renewed, revived.

To wait ... but for a little while

Until our hands are once more entwined.

Author's Note

Asked to write on topic Hands, I reflected on all that amother or parent does with her/his hands throughout he lifetime of the child. Hope you enjoy. PLEASE DO COMMENT. thanks